


The Hotel Bar Hangover Whiskey's Gone Dry

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Bon Jovi? Really? [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Casual Sex, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester UST, Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is plagued by... himself mostly, and memories of Sam (and also Bon Jovi) until he's forced to do what he really wants to do: drive all the way to Stanford to get Sam back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hotel Bar Hangover Whiskey's Gone Dry

**Author's Note:**

> This is a songfic to Bon Jovi's Bed of Roses and I think songfics might not really be the done thing anymore but, well, sorry, but also bite me :)
> 
> I just loved the other Bon Jovi moment so much. I think it's my favorite scene.

_Sitting here wasted and wounded at this old piano_  
 _Trying hard to capture the moment this morning I don't know_  
 _'Cause a bottle of vodka’s still lodged in my head_  
 _And some blonde gave me nightmares_  
 _I think that she’s still in my bed_

_  
_Dean wakes up and checks his phone for messages from Sammy. There are no messages from Sammy. It’s 6.30am and he has a hoodoo zombie to put back in the ground. He rolls carefully out of bed, so as not to disturb… Karina? Karenina? Katrina? Yeah, Katrina. Kinky Russian leggy Katrina with chunky black fuck-me-boots all the way up to her thighs. No danger of disturbing Katrina apparently. The empty bottle of tequila heavily scents the air. Dean lurches slightly when he first gets vertical but shakes it off, grabs his stuff and leaves silently. He’s had practice.

 

He pops a couple of aspirin and drives two miles from Katrina’s apartment before pulling over on farmland to check the arsenal in the Impala’s trunk. His latest conquest has quite a wild lifestyle of her own, so far as Dean can tell, but he reckons she would have balked at what he carries round in his trunk anyway. He pumps the mechanism on his favorite shotgun just to feel it click. Who wouldn’t? If the guns didn’t do it then he’s pretty sure the stakes, holy water and hoodoo ingredients would. Everything’s as it should be in the trunk, so he shuts her up heads for New Orleans. Breakfast first. No point trying to waste zombies on an empty stomach.

 

The diner could be anywhere in America. He orders bacon and imagines Sammy telling him to go easy on the pig. He has pancakes and syrup, and plenty of coffee. He tries to imagine Sam across the table from him but he can’t and it occurs to him, with a terrible certainty, that his life is only ever going to be a shadow of what it could have been with Sammy by his side. Dean the Urban Soldier in black and white. Sammy took the technicolor away with him and now there’s only dirty coffee to stare at.

 

God, when did he become so fucking morose? He needs more sugar or something. He dumps a handful of lumps into his coffee and then winces at the taste.

 

_As I dream about movies they won't make of me when I'm dead_

****

 

 _With an ironclad fist I wake up and French kiss the morning_  
 _While some marching band keeps its own beat in my head while we're talking_  
 _About all of the things that I long to believe, about love and the truth and_  
 _What you mean to me, and the truth is_

_Baby you're all that I need_

Dean wakes up and checks his phone for messages from Sammy, except he can’t find his phone at first because he’s in a doorway like the drunken bum he’s becoming, last night’s bourbon growing fuzzy on his tongue. He wrestles the phone out of his pocket and there are no messages from Sammy. He’s going to have to lay off the booze. It’s getting stupid.

 

Last night he had been the hero. Textbook undead to re-dead scenario. Things had gone sideways a bit when the other _four_ zombies had shown, but they had come at a good time for Dean, sawn off shotgun still smoking from the first headshot. One headshot, five headshots, just another day at the office dear. Of course it had taken longer to dig five graves and stake them all back in place but luckily he’d had help with that and only had to dig one himself. The kids were crazy here, dancing on the edge of the occult. And they knew how to celebrate, that’s for sure. A couple of aspirin aren’t going to cut it this morning. Dean groans and makes for the nearest, greasiest café he can find.  

 

The coffee helps a bit. The problem is that the more Dean sobers up, the more he feels at a loose end. He’s starting to worry about Dad, now that the zombie job’s done. It has been over two weeks and he would usually have checked in by now. Dean’s hung over state makes him feel helpless, weak and emotionally vulnerable, all things he hates. It would be so easy to keep drinking.

 

Some sappy Bon Jovi song starts to play and it’s another sign that Dean’s weakened himself to point-stupid, because it makes him feel tearful.

 

Dean doesn’t think he can keep going for long alone, or, more accurately, without Sam. He can’t do the hunting on his own because what’s the point? He has considered an accident with a monster as the quickest way out but he wouldn’t do it: he still believes that Sammy needs him. It’s at the very center of Dean and he’ll only stop believing it when he’s dead, or maybe not ever if ghosts are anything to go by. He’s not going to be able to find Dad on his own either. In fact he’s not going to able to do much unless he can get off the drink for a while and find some motivation to live.

 

Suicide radio isn’t helping.

 

There’s only one motivational factor in Dean’s life, aside from occasionally burning things, and that’s Sam, his Sammy.

 

Dean’s cell buzzes and it’s a voicemail from Dad, finally. But the message Dean hears only worries him more. He presses the heels of his hands into his whisky red eyes and feels like a frightened kid. He needs Sammy. What else can he do? Besides, Dad’s message is a valid reason to ask for Sam’s help.

 

He’s going to sober up. He needs to be sober because it’s a long drive to Stanford. The decision makes Dean feel instantly better. He even hums along to the chorus without really realizing he’s doing it.

 

_I want to lay you down in a bed of roses_  
 _For tonight I sleep on a bed of nails_  
 _I want to be just as close as the Holy Ghost is_  
 _And lay you down on a bed of roses_  
  


****

_Well I'm so far away that each step that I take is on my way home_  
 _A king's ransom in dimes I'd given each night just to see through this payphone_  
 _Still I run out of time or it's hard to get through_  
 _Till the bird on the wire flies me back to you_  
 _I'll just close my eyes and whisper_  
 _Baby blind love is true_  
  


Dean wakes up and checks his phone for messages from Sammy. There are no messages from Sammy. Something is missing and he realizes that it’s the hangover. He could get used to this, maybe.

 

He spends the morning trying to rehearse what he can say. He goes through every scenario that occurs to him: Sammy pleased to see him, welcoming and happy; Sammy indifferent to him, their bond all but forgotten for some future Mrs Sam; Angry Sam. Dean thinks that Angry Sam is the most likely because somehow that’s how things always turn out between them. It’s not his worst case scenario though.

 

He’s pretty sure that drivers who talk to non-existent passengers should not be in charge of moving vehicles. Then it occurs to him that he should probably call ahead and his mouth is suddenly dry. He could really use a beer about now.

 

Selecting one of the newer phones with a number that Sammy won’t recognize seems like a good idea. Dean wants a fighting chance. He lets Sam’s phone ring five times but cuts the call, with equal feelings of relief and disappointment, before the answer phone can kick in. He doesn't try again.

 

He flips the radio back on. It’s that Bon Jovi song again. Fucking hell. He tries not to sing along but can’t really help himself.

 

_I want to lay you down in a bed of roses_  
 _For tonight I sleep on a bed of nails_  
 _I want to be just as close as the Holy Ghost is_  
 _And lay you down on a bed of roses_  
  


****

 

_The hotel bar hangover whiskey's gone dry_  
 _The barkeeper's wig's crooked and she's giving me the eye_  
 _I might have said yeah_  
 _But I laughed so hard I think I died_

 

The motel room’s theme seems to be ‘Dean’s Nighmares’. It looks like they’ve given a back alley psychic free reign as a graffiti artist. There are symbols and sigils all over the walls. Dean recognizes some of them as starsigns and he thinks a good few of them are made up, or maybe they’re obscure Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Some are all too familiar however, and for a moment he considers getting a refund and driving on for a while, maybe right out of Texas, but he’s too tired damn it all.

 

Dean climbs under the star spangled coverlet and stares at Sammy’s starsign, which is right over the bed. It’s Taurus, the bull. Even Sam’s starsign is horny. Dean needs help. He tells himself that he needs professional help. And if he had a dollar for every time he thought that he needed professional help he would be one rich sonofabitch.

 

This thing he has for Sam is one bitch of a taskmaster. Every night he fights it. There’s booze and there are one night stands. Hell, sometimes there are two stands a night, and these things can help, but tonight there’s nothing to distract him, nothing to make him sleep, and Dean knows he’s fighting a losing battle. He still fights it. Why the fuck can’t he be normal? Sammy’s normal. At least Dean hopes that Sammy’s normal, now. There are a handful of memories that make Dean think that maybe Sam’s just as fucked up and twisted as he is. He can’t admit that they are his favorite memories but they are certainly some of his most re-visited.

 

_Now as you close your eyes, know I'll be thinking about you_  
 _While my mistress she calls me to stand in her spotlight again_  
  


There was Sammy at nine asking for Dean’s ring, the one he bought himself at the biker store while Dad was getting new leather gloves. Dean had told him to get his own and Sam had sulked until it occurred to him to ask for it later when they were old enough. _Old enough for what?_ Dean had asked and Sam had given him bitch face 2 (early days), which meant that Dean was being dense on purpose.  _Deeean, you know, old enough. _And Dean had kind of known. He had told Sammy that one day he could marry a hot chick and get a wedding ring and Sammy had pulled this really cute disgusted face and said, _But I don’t want a wedding ring Dean, I want your ring._ Dean had kept the ring, although he stopped wearing it at fourteen. Silver skull rings were strictly for teenagers and biker gangs.

 

There was Sammy at twelve learning to load a shotgun. Jesus. What the fuck was their father thinking? Anyway, Dad had been patient but Sammy hadn’t wanted to load the gun over and over because he already knew how to do it from the first ten times and he had a basic Spanish vocabulary test in the morning. And what kind of twelve year old boy wants to study instead of playing with guns? Dad had lost his temper and given Sammy the lecture about needing to protect himself from the usual things: monsters, zombies, possessed people. _What makes you special Sam?_ Dad had yelled, when he still wouldn’t comply, and Sammy had yelled, _Dean!_ right back. Their father had looked stumped for a moment before explaining in a calmer tone that Dean wasn’t always going to be there to protect him. _Oh_ y _es he is_ , Sammy had said, and he had sounded absolutely certain. He had looked over at Dean for confirmation and Dean had given him the tiniest nod, the most he ever rebelled against Dad.

 

Something had happened to Sammy at thirteen. He’d got smart and stopped talking about being together forever. Dean had told himself that it was the end of a phase, that Sammy would get interested in girls and grow away from him. Dean hated this idea and clung to it anyway, knowing deep down that it wasn’t true. Seventeen year old Dean had been a big hit with the ladies. Dad had been away for weeks at a time and Dean had brought girls home at every opportunity. He had learned to fuck at fourteen and learned to fuck well at fifteen. By seventeen Dean had his technique down, and he loved to practice. Sometimes floorboards squeaked outside the door where they were doing it. The girls hadn’t heard but Dean had known that Sammy was there, listening to them. His technique had expanded to incorporate dirty talk, something he apparently had a natural affinity for. He hadn’t had the courage to leave the door open a crack, telling himself that it would cross some line. He had told himself that Sammy’s interest was normal: a hot older woman _was_ being fucked to within an inch of her life after all. Dean did take the key out of the lock though, and the keyhole was a big old fashioned one in that house, and the bed was visible from the door. Sometimes he had glanced up at the keyhole when he heard the creaking, unable to resist. The creaking never stopped.

 

By the time Sammy was sixteen Dean had been tormented with impure thoughts about him for years. Dean’s appetite for girls had soared in response. He’d brought them home at every opportunity and got really creative with the sex, and with the filthy narrative that came so naturally to him. He had started to leave the door open sometime the year before. If it was too obvious then he had used mirrors, telling himself that Sammy watched the girls, blah blah blah, knowing it was a lie. Sophie Kinsela liked to take it in her ass. Dean was happy to oblige. They had fucked side on to the door and when Dean came he had looked to the side and seen Sammy, in full view, lips parted, face full of awe, eyes glued to Dean’s face. Dean thinks that he has never come so hard before or since. He hadn’t shouted Sammy’s name but it had been a close thing. By the time he had finished coming Sammy had gone.

 

There had been a break after that, not because Dad had come home but because Dean’s guilt had caught up with him and bitten him in the ass. Sam had sulked, and then one evening Sam had left the bathroom door wide open. Dean couldn’t help but see what he was being shown. Sam and Mirror Sam in full view, face raised to the hot spray of the shower, cock in hand, jerking off obscenely slowly. Sam’s cock had seemed disproportionately thick and long compared to his lanky body, and impossibly hard and angry red in the hot water. Dean had frozen, caught and unable to move or look away, and Sam had looked at him. Dean had found his legs and hotfooted it out of there. He had staggered into the empty house two doors away and jacked off in the dark, biting his fist and moaning _Sammy Sammy Sammy_. Afterwards it had occurred to him that Sam might have been keeping himself hard like that in the shower for hours, waiting for Dean to arrive, and Dean had needed to jack off all over again.

 

The memory that comes most often to Dean is from the day Sammy left him for Stanford, Law School, normality, his own life. He doesn’t like to think about it because it hurts, more so than the other memories. Fresh pain, even three years down the line. Apparently Dean’s libido is a masochist though because if he’s honest (and he tries not to be) there have only been a handful of occasions since when Dean hasn’t jacked off thinking about that day.

 

Sam had packed. Dad had yelled. Dean had given him a ride to the bus station. Dean had been crawling his mental walls all day, screaming inside. He hadn’t been able to imagine tomorrow; had only been able to continue functioning because Sammy wasn’t gone just yet. When they got to the bus station Sam had led him by the arm around behind the offices and pushed him up against the wall. Dean had been so sure that Sam was about to kiss him. He had put his hands either side of Dean’s face, even pulled his thumb over Dean’s cheek, close to his lips. Sam had been hot, like a furnace, and his hands had shaken, although it had been more anger and restraint than fear. He had pushed his hot forehead against Dean’s. Then he had pushed his whole burning body against Dean and Dean had felt the hard line of Sam’s cock like a punch to the gut. Dean had held Sam’s shoulders and pushed him gently to arm’s length. He still hated himself for it and knew he would probably do it again. _I can’t Dean,_ Sammy had said, _I can’t leave you_ , and Dean had closed his eyes to steady his voice. Sammy hadn’t been looking anyway, head bowed, hair falling forwards.  He had said, _Sure you can kiddo_ , and then he had got Sam on that bus and waved him off.

 

Three fucking years and not a word. Dean Winchester is a broken man. He comes silently thinking of the tears running down Sammy’s face while he says _I can’t leave you._

 

****

 

_Tonight I won't be alone but you know that don't mean I'm not lonely_

_I've got nothing to prove for it's you that I'd die to defend_

 

All these interstate routes make Dean think of Sammy. The beautiful parks, the cities, all well travelled in their childhood. Dean imagines his much younger self sitting in the back of the Impala with Sammy, squabbling over something while Dad drives, and he feels a wave of crazy jealousy for the child he used to be.

 

When he stops at Lake Havasu, Arizona, Dean picks up some curvy drunk brunette chick with devil-red lipstick at a bar and fucks her across the hood of the Impala out back. He doesn’t want to take her to his room in case she wants to stay. Afterwards he feels vaguely ashamed. It’s much easier when he’s had a few drinks as well. The women are better looking through the orange filter of spirits, and he misses the carefree moral stance that alcohol encourages. But she’s okay, the drunk chick, making her way back to the bar. It’s probably not even the last time she’ll be out here tonight.

 

Some of the restlessness has left Dean’s body and he falls asleep without too much trouble, and without needing to relive Sam’s departure, so it was definitely worth it.

 

****

 

Dean fidgets. He’s almost there. He puts a Kansas album in the tape deck but it’s wrong. An hour? Forty minutes maybe? _So close Sammy, nearly there_. He tries Iron Maiden and Metallica, usually failsafes but it’s still wrong. He switches to radio because sometimes good songs sound better on the radio, when someone else choses them and other people are listening too, from other little metal planets on the freeway.

 

They’re counting down the greatest solos of all time for Halloween on a local station called Galaxy Rock, which suits Dean fine, although he doesn’t really get what solos have to do with Halloween. He could have patched together some pretty mean Halloween rock compilations if anyone asked. Then Bed of Roses by Bon Jovi comes on _again_. Really, what are the chances? Maybe his stereo is possessed. “Countdown of girly shmoop morelike,” mutters Dean, “Definitely Halloween,” but he leaves the dial alone. “ _Bon Jovi_ , man,” he tells his rearview mirror disapprovingly. Sam would laugh his ass off.

 

Sam, Sam, Sam. _I’m coming Sammy_ , he thinks. Soon Sam will be riding shotgun, taking a vacation from genius law school. Dean hopes so. He hopes very very hard.

 

Oh what the hell, there’s no one here to witness it. And Sammy wouldn’t admit it but Dean’s sure that he knows all the words to this one too.

 

He cranks up the volume and lets rip with the chorus.

 

_I want to lay you down in a bed of roses_  
 _For tonight I sleep on a bed of nails_  
 _I want to be just as close as the Holy Ghost is_  
 _And lay you down on a bed of roses_

**Author's Note:**

> There's actually a Digital UK radio station called Planet Rock, which I would never have listened to before being introduced to Dean Winchester, and they really did do a best-solos-ever countdown the other day, featuring this song.


End file.
